


chaque chose vaut son prix

by malkinisms (hannibalisms)



Series: a curious body of onyx and blood [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalisms/pseuds/malkinisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding Will after years of being outside the United States is a mean feat.  The man had receded into himself and alcohol, moved from place to place and back again, his pack of dogs trailing behind him.  In all actuality, it is Clarice who finds him first, after Brazil, after seeing Barney in the opera house, countries and continents away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> for [darling luca](http://hrafnagaldr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> there is a bit of timeline fuckery going on here. takes place in the modern (nbc!hannibal?) world. hannibal’s incarceration is a less than in the books, and thus the timeline can be shortened. We can assume that Clarice is the youngest, Will in the middle, and Hannibal the eldest. the general premise remains the same.
> 
>  _chaque chose vaut son prix._ **all things are worth their price.**

> _thaïlande_

Finding Will after years of being outside the United States is a mean feat.  The man had receded into himself and alcohol, moved from place to place and back again, his pack of dogs trailing behind him.

In all actuality, it is Clarice who finds him first, after Brazil, after seeing Barney in the opera house, countries and continents away.

They’ve gone to Thailand, luxuriating in hotels of Siem Reap, taking day trips to the fantastic sights and making enough contact with those in charge that they get all-access passes to the places where tourists are not allowed.

They have returned from a long day at Angkor Thom - both of them marvelling at the architecture, though Clarice is far more obvious and gloriously childlike in it - and Clarice is pressed into his side as he reads, fingers moving away at the keyboard of her laptop.

She makes a soft noise - mingled excitement and pleasure - and turns the computer to face him.  She waits as he finishes the section of Schleiermacher’s [ _Pädagogische Schriften_](http://archive.org/details/schleiermachers02schlgoog) that has held his attention for the past week.  The English translation that he had bought in Vienna was not at all satisfactory, and as such he had to purchase the German version.  Schleiermacher’s thoughts are much more clear in his own tongue, rather than translated by some braying fool.

He marks his page and sets the text aside, taking the laptop from her hands.

She says nothing, and words would be meaningless anyway.  Staring up at him is William Graham’s visage, curled and scarred but still strong, still beautiful.

**GUEST SPEAKER WILL GRAHAM** , the heading reads, and underneath that in a subheading,  **HOW HE COPES WITH HIS DEPRESSION** ,

He scrolls down and reads the paragraph under the heading and Clarice reads with him, though she must have read it already.

_After leaving a career with the FBI following the Dolarhyde case, William Graham turned to drugs and alcohol to make himself feel whole and human.  Graham entered treatment and overcame his personal demons and comes to the University of Louisiana Lafayette to speak about his life experiences._

Hannibal makes a speculative noise.  "All the way home, hmm?"

Clarice presses her face into his shoulder for a moment, thinking.  "He went back to Louisiana because it is one of the only places that really felt like home to him."

"Not Wolf Trap?"

"No," she says, shaking her head a little.  "Not Wolf Trap, never Wolf Trap.  To him, Wolf Trap stinks of what he lost."

Hannibal smiles, crooked in a way that only a few people have seen - Clarice, of course, and Will, and Mischa.

"Have you been to Louisiana before, Clarice?"

"You know I haven’t, Hannibal."

He pinches her thigh, a weak reprimand, because she is the only brave enough to use snark against him (Will did, at one point, when he had been comfortable, before Will figured it out).

("You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed," Will had said, but Hannibal liked him best that way).

"Perhaps it is time to go home, for a bit," he says, almost to himself, and Clarice grins as she presses a finger to his jaw and he allows his head to be turned, and she kisses him.

"For a little," she agrees.

> _lafayette, louisiane_

It had taken Hannibal two weeks to find a place for them to stay, out of the way but not too far from the city itself.  The farmhouse is gorgeous, and he does not begrudge Clarice her pleasure when she runs from room to room before coming back to him.

She kisses him, and he still marvels at the way she can make his blood sing, not for the familiar urge to kill, but for the urge to rut, something that she found and coaxed out of him.

He allows her to pull him into the closest room with a couch - more of a chaise lounge, really - but it does not take any leading on her part to get him on his knees in front of her, her hands buried in his hair and her legs over his shoulders.

His Clarice is very rarely loud, and this time she is not as she comes on his tongue.  It pleases him that she allows him that pleasure, and when she relaxes and reaches for him, he catches her hand and presses a kiss to the palm.

He confessed to her once, closely after they left the United States together, that he does not often need or want to reach completion.  She had been puzzled at first, but when he continued and said that he wanted  _her_ , everything she had to give him, everything that she was willing to give, that was enough.

It is not that he does not enjoy her body, for the exact opposite is true, but that her pleasure  _is_  his, and that is enough.

He presses wet kisses to her thighs, still muscled and strong from her tenure with the FBI.  He knows that in this position, she could break his neck if she wished.

It is enough that she does not.

Hannibal remains there, on his knees, but this is not a submission and Clarice knows this well.  He is on his knees for her because he wishes it, but it is not her place to demand it.

When he stands, Clarice is still soft and muzzy on the edge of the couch, her knees splayed wide.  He picks her up and she laughs, because he does not do this often.  They find the master bathroom once more and settle into the tub - large enough to fit three or four comfortably - and this time, when Clarice slips into his lap, his blood peaks, sending sparks out to his fingers.

Her fingers press into his shoulders, nails just long enough to scrape and scratch, and when he lifts her up just enough and fucks into her, she uses them as she likes, and how Hannibal likes.

It’s slow, this time, mostly because Hannibal loves to draw it out, make her burn with need and want and pleasure, a strange kind of pain.  He likes watching her, just as much as she enjoys watching him.

They are free here, apart from the world but still part of it, two-thirds of a whole and they both feel that emptiness, that space at Clarice’s back where there should be another.

Her head falls back, exposing her throat and Hannibal cannot resist, never does, and presses his mouth against the line of her jugular and bites down, just hard enough to leave a bruise and a suck mark in the center, but no blood.

He comes then, shuddering and spasming, holding Clarice close as his mind shatters apart and then rebuilds itself, fresh and new and more beautiful than before.

> _auditorium_

They sit in the back, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves, but where they can still see William’s face clearly.

When he comes to the podium, Hannibal still sees the tics and neuroses as clear as day.  He remembers writing  _autism_  and  _Asberger’s syndrome_  on a pad of paper before crossing them out.  He still thinks it true.

Will waits until most of the seats are filled, pacing, not looking at them, and once they are seated, he begins.

He tells them everything that Hannibal has known and what he had not, but more of the former rather than the latter.  He speaks about Wolf Trap, and Quantico, and Baltimore.  He speaks obliquely of Hannibal, not mentioning him by name but the audience knows of whom he speaks.

"I had a friend once, singular, and I was betrayed - but in a way, so was he," Will says, and Hannibal presses his forefinger to his bottom lip.  Will is astute.

Clarice strokes a finger in the valleys of his knuckles.  It comforts him.

He speaks of the Dolarhyde case, and of his loss of Molly and Willy to others, and pauses for a moment to take a drink of water, and when he turns Hannibal cannot see his scars for all of the curls of his hair, the arms of his glasses.

But the moment is over, and Hannibal remembers.

Will continues, talking of Sugarloaf Key and the dogs, of Winston, of his stay in mental hospitals and then rehab a few years ago.  

"I’m still an alcoholic, but a recovering one.  The urge will always be there, to go back to how it was rather than what it could be.  That’s the important thing, and I lost sight of that within my own misery, locked inside my head.  I was unwilling to see the - the  _rudeness_ and  _selfishness_  of that."

The words are  _music_  to Hannibal.

He can’t help the smile that quirks his lips, the warmth that floods his limbs.

Dear William has changed quite a bit, but underneath that, he is still the same young man with the remarkable memory, still the same emotional and cognitive empath that he was when he came to Hannibal.

He wants to consume Will in the same way that he has consumed Clarice, body and mind, willingly, and spit him back out and watch him reform.  It  _aches_  somewhere in his sternum, warm and pressing and nearly painful.

He does not actively covet, and yet here he is.

> _dîner_

Hannibal does not like to sneak, and feels it is below him, and rightly so. But, to approach Will in public, to make him uncomfortable - as pleasing as that would be - will no endear him to Will, nor will it do the same for Clarice.

Will goes into a small delicatessen and seems to know the people there, because he gives them a smile and they hand him a sandwich - Hannibal imagines that it is a  _croque gagnet_ , something that Hannibal had made him many times - but more likely than not it is a simple roast beef sandwich with that horrible brown mustard that people seem to love.

Hannibal and Clarice sit in the car, watching, silent, until Clarice leans over the console and presses a kiss to his cheek, then slips out of the car, light on her feet.

Hannibal would be worried, but Clarice is more intelligent than she lets on, and dear Will never met her, but that does not mean that he will not know her on sight.

She smiles at the woman behind the counter, southern charm matching southern charm, but Hannibal is more interested in William.  He watches Clarice, and Hannibal knows him well enough that she is attractive to him.

She’s wearing naught but tailored jeans and a flowing blouse, something that she bought in Paris, but she is as bright as the sun in it, blinding all who look.

She smiles again, this time saying something to Will as she waits for their food (whether or not Hannibal will eat it is another issue, but if he does not, she will) and he gives her a true smile, mindless of the scar wrenching his lips apart.

The cashier hands her the wrapped parcel and Clarice pays for it, saying one more thing, before smiling at Will once more.

His eyes follow her out of the deli and into the car, and it’s then that Will sees him.

His mouth drops open and he goes pale, but with anger or fright he cannot say.

Hannibal inclines his head to him as Clarice gets settled in the seat, and as she shuts the door William is getting up, packing his things hurriedly, stuffing them into his bag.

Hannibal begins to pull away as William exits the deli and vaults into his own car, and Hannibal knows that he will follow.

It would be rude to do otherwise.

> _véranda_

Clarice waits for him outside because Hannibal knows he will come.  Not right away, but he will.

She has had time to change into a wonderful opaque peignoir he had bought for her - he will admit that he was given the idea while in Florence - and the deep blue brings out her color, makes her hair fiery even in the dark of night.

Hannibal remains in the study, brandy suspended from his fingertips as he watches from the wing-back chair, and he knows that if Clarice were to look at him she would smile and tease him about being the picture of elegance, all things high-end.

He waits.  He can be patient.  He has never been anything else, not after Mischa.

> _clarice_

He comes up the driveway.  She listens to his car, because it’s something that she still enjoys.  She misses the Mustang she once had, but Hannibal has impeccable taste.

She can pick out the rumble of a V8, but it’s not until the car slows and stops that she sees it’s a Camaro, an older model, first generation, full and throaty.  The car has been restored lovingly, and she notes that he must have done this over a great period of time.

It could not have been done since he stopped drinking, if he did indeed restore it; he must have done so before he stopped.

He gets out slowly, the shadows across his face deepening his scars and making them grotesque in a beautiful way.  He doesn’t move from in front of the door of the car.

"I’m Clarice," she offers, voice carrying across the gap, “and you must be Will."

"You know that I am," he retorts.

She smiles.  He has bite left in him, a lot of it.  She knows why Hannibal wanted him, still wants him.  It makes sense.  Hannibal wants those who will bend to his whims, but not easily.  He wants the fight, but on his terms, and Clarice is willing to play the game with him.

It helps that she loves him, of course, even though if she will never be sure if Hannibal is even  _capable_  of love.  He must be able to, she assumes, otherwise he would not miss Mischa or Will.

He would not have come back for her.

She steps off the porch and Will does not retreat, stands his ground as a beta among alphas would.  She stretches out her hand and Will looks from her face to her hand, twice, three times, before he takes it.

"It’s going to rain.  Come inside."

Will’s eyes flicker between her face and the house, looking, taking it in, and he manages to start speaking. “No."

"No?"

"It’s bad enough that I’m here, speaking with a missing person,  _knowing_  that there is an internationally wanted, cannibalistic serial killer, but now you’re asking me to  _come inside_?"

"Yes," she says simply, with a little shrug of her shoulders.  She has no reason to lie.  That’s all that she’s asking, and all that Hannibal is asking.

He huffs out a laugh, and his palm is sweaty in hers.  She wonders if it takes him a lot of energy to not enter her headspace based on human contact.  Hannibal told her that he often mimics speech patterns or behaviors because it is simply his nature; some think that he is being rude or condescending, but it is just his way.

Will looks to the house, scanning over the windows, trying to pick out where Hannibal is.  He doesn’t say anything.

"Hannibal is in the study," Clarice volunteers, and Will nods.

"Brandy," he mutters, “cognac."

His fingers are clenching, open and closed, and he turns to her and asks, "[1904 Marquis de Montesquiou Armagnac](http://www.binnys.com/spirits/Marquis_de_Montesquiou_Vintage_Armagnac_96292.html)?"

"We left that in Vienna," she answers, “so tonight it’s [L’or de Jean Martell](http://www.martell.com/en/cognac/l-or-de-jean-martell-cognac/)."

"Not as good, but good enough," Will mumbles, bringing one hand up to his mouth and rubbing, as though he can rub the scars from his lips.

Clarice moves to drop his hand but Will tightens his fingers around hers, taking a deep breath that shudders in his chest and wheezes through his lips.

"Will?"

"Like a band-aid, huh," he says, with a smile that is more of a grimace, almost pained.

He lets go and marches to the front door, leaving Clarice behind him until she catches up with him as he follows his instincts to the study.

> _triolisme_

Hannibal hears the door open and he turns from the window where he was watching the sun sink below the tree line, dark finally setting on the land of the farm.

"Hello, William."

Will stands in the doorway, still hidden in the shadows, Clarice standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder.

Hannibal settles in a chair far from the door, close to the open veranda doors.  He knows that Will is hesitant to come near him, previous encounters setting a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hannibal recognizes this, and knows that Will does as well.

"Dr. Lecter," Will says, and Hannibal smiles at the tremor in his voice.  It warms him from his throat to the base of his spine, and he should not be as pleased as he is about Will’s terror.

He smells of sweat and fear, but no longer of that horrible aftershave.  He tells Will this.

"I figured it might have been time for change," Will ventures.

He flinches when Clarice pats his shoulder and moves past him to alight upon the arm of Hannibal’s chair.  She leans on his shoulder, fingers dipping into the pocket of his jacket.

Normally he would protest her perch, but the chairs do not belong to him, and he knows they make a pleasing portrait, Clarice of fire and silk and he of blood and nature.

Will enters the room, and Hannibal fancies that he can hear Will’s heart pumping overtime, trying to satiate his fight or flight instincts.  

What does he want more: to get away from Hannibal, or get close to him?

If he were more uncouth, he would actually ask Will which was winning out, fuck or flee.

Will edges into the room and sits in another chair, sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening in the hollow of his collarbones.  When he comes into the light, Hannibal has to suppress a noise deep in his throat.  His scars are faded but still clearly visible, lip twisted where it didn’t heal perfectly, nose different than it was but more reconstructed than Hannibal imagined.

Will swallows.  Hannibal tracks the movement, and he knows that Clarice does as well.

No matter the scars, Will is still very attractive, will never  _not_  be attractive.

Fuck, Hannibal thinks.

> _dépouiller_

Hannibal sets his hand on Clarice’s knee for a moment and shifts from the chair, setting his cognac on the side table.  He crosses to Will before he has a chance to move, crouching down in front of him and taking his hand.

They are warm and faintly damp, a nervous reaction that Will has not been able to suppress in all the time that Hannibal has known him.  Will makes no move to pull away, perhaps frozen by the fear that is rolling off him in waves, sweet and delicious to Hannibal’s palette.

Will would make a delightful meal, he decides, if only Hannibal had no wish to harm him.

He pries Will’s hand open and presses his mouth to his palm and Hannibal can feel Will jerk, almost as though he’s going to pull away.  He doesn’t, though, and Hannibal rewards him with a long lick from the tip of his index finger to the root of his wrist.

Hannibal can feel the pound of Will’s blood against the skin, sweet and tight, and he sucks a red mark into the skin there, flushed against the blue of his veins.

His fingers are calloused and rough, still faintly scratchy from working on the boats.  He tastes of salt and remnants of vinegar from his sandwich, and it makes Hannibal salivate even more.  Will is, and has always been, delicious.

He glances up and Will’s mouth is slack, almost totally relaxed.  His tongue darts out and rubs at the crease of the scar that bisects his lip, and Hannibal wants to rip it out with his teeth and kiss him in equal amounts.

Clarice is almost gone from his mind, although he always has a sense of where she is and what she thinks, but at this moment he is  _filled_  with Will and the sense of completion he has that they are both in the same room with him.  Will was first, Will was his initial interest, the first person that he actually  _desired_  after leaving France.

There were fleeting instances, yes, but they were paltry fumblings in the dark when he had no idea what he really wanted, what really made him squirm behind the veil of humanity that he had to adopt.

Will closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them they are dark and dilated, so wide that Hannibal fancies he can see himself reflected in them.

Will lifts his other hand and Hannibal fancies that he is going to stroke his face.

Instead, Will hits him.

> _maltraitance_

Clarice stands behind them and starts towards them but Hannibal holds up his hand, stopping her.

Blood is running from his lip where he bit it, and it has been a very long time since he has tasted his own blood.  It’s almost pleasing, to know that dear William still has that within him, and it was not lost to the decade of abuse.

"I rather think that I deserved that," he says, and rubs his own blood off his mouth.  It’s glaringly red and he contemplates it for a moment before licking it off his finger.  "You are just as powerful as I remember, William."

"I’ve had time to work out, between you gutting me and getting my face ruined."

"Rude, William," Hannibal says, and his fingers circle Will’s wrist so tight they are almost bruising, “but I shall forgive you, just this once.  After all, you’ve waited so patiently for me, all this time."

Will looks away, out the window and to the Louisiana sky, and Hannibal can see him chewing the inside of his cheek, a horrible habit that he still hasn’t weaned himself from doing.  Will doesn’t look at him when Hannibal reaches up, using the same hand that had just wiped his own away, but he does flinch.

Hannibal’s thumb rests against his philtrum, feeling the difference between the softness of the scar and the rough stubble - three days at the most.  His fingers cup the curve of Will’s jaw and Hannibal cannot stop his quick intake of breath, almost a gasp.  Like a spider his fingers crawl Will’s face, mapping it out and remembering the new planes, changing those blueprints of William Graham that he had before.

Will  _leans into it_ , like he did so long ago, when Hannibal had passed a hand over his forehead and Will sought out the comfort of someone,  _anyone_.

Hannibal takes the chance to pass his thumb over Will’s lips, chapped and rough from years of biting them and not taking care of them, and when Will opens his mouth and allows Hannibal’s thumb entry, Hannibal cannot help the soft noise that squeezes through his larynx and into the world.

Will’s tongue is soft and his teeth are sharp and Hannibal can imagine them snapping down on the joint of his thumb and taking it off, and he wouldn’t mind  _per se_.  If it were Will or Clarice, it would be bearable.  If they wanted to take him into their body, he would allow it.

He can sense Clarice behind him as he cannot take his eyes off of William, cannot stop watching as his barriers fall ever so slightly.

Clarice sits on the arm of the chair and Will turns from Hannibal’s hand to look at her, and she takes the opportunity to curl a hand into his hair at the back of his skull.  She tugs at it a little, then presses forward to kiss him.

The sight of the two of them together is more beautiful than anything that Hannibal has ever seen, and he seen much in his life.  It is more glorious than the  _Duomo di Siena_ , more entrancing than the [Aachendom](http://www.aachendom.de/).  It is greater than all of the bodies left in his wake, better than anything that he has created.

Clarice is the fire, and William is the heat thrown off of it, the spark that catches you unaware.

> _plaisir_

When Clarice pulls away, both of their mouths are swollen and red.  Will looks dazed, slack with the taste of his Clarice on his tongue, and Clarice looks  _ravenous_  as only Hannibal has seen.

He said something to her once, before he found her again, about being nothing but a sticky fumble for boys in the back of their cars, and though she had agreed with him, she showed him how much more she became.

She had grown in the years that separated them, learnt her body and herself, and Hannibal wonders if dear William had done the same or if it would be with  _them_  that he would re-learn himself.

Hannibal rises and pulls another wide wing-back chair close to them and settles down to watch, because Clarice knows how much he loves to watch her, and William will learn.

His hand is on her waist now, fingers spread over the curve of it and gripping the fabric a little, as though he is stunned that she is there.

Clarice grins, a little upturn of her lips, and glances quickly at Hannibal.

It is as though Will has just remembered that he is there and he looks guilty for a moment, that wonderful head of his cranking into overdrive.

"There is nothing wrong in pleasure with another, William," Hannibal says softly, “You have denied yourself that. You do not have to do so any longer."

"You  _took_  that from me," Will spits, his face flushed though with anger or lust he cannot tell. “I had that with Molly, I could have had that with Alana, but you  _took_  it."

His head tilts backwards, cords of his neck standing out and face in a rictus of passion.  Will’s fingers tighten on Clarice’s hips and it must hurt but she lets him, like she lets Hannibal.

"I  _could have_ ," he says, “but then you got into my life and you  _fucked it up_  and I  _hate_  myself and I hate you, because when you showed up I didn’t know what was going on and you changed  _everything_."

Clarice leans forward and holds his face in her palms, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones.  "We’re giving it back to you," she says, “we  _are_ , with us, if you want it."

"Why would you? You don’t know me, and Hannibal  _ruined me_ , made me this twisted, hideous  _monster_ , so how could you want this?"

"William," Hannibal says, “you are more beautiful than anything I have ever known."

"That’s because you carved me hollow and filled me up, made me what I am, Hannibal, and it’s  _your fault_  and I hate you for it," Will says, through his gritted teeth and Clarice’s hands.  "You made me want you and it’s all that I could think about, and it  _ruined_  me."

> _ruine_

"No," Hannibal says. “I showed you what you could be.  And it frightens you, because you see  _me_  in yourself."

"Fuck you," Will gasps, “for being so right all the time."

Hannibal smiles a little.

Clarice presses a kiss to Will’s forehead but Will pulls away, tries to squirm out from underneath her but she manages to pin him, knees on either side of his hips and hands on his shoulders.

Will’s hips press up to throw her off but Clarice pushes down, and after a few moments it turns from a fight to flee into a parody of fucking, Will thrusting up and Clarice meeting him grind for grind.

He’s guiding her with his hands on her hips but Hannibal knows that Clarice is in control.  Hannibal is the dominant partner in all of this, but Clarice could be, if she wanted it.  But she does not and has not, not in all of their time together.  She has control over what she does, but Hannibal holds them together.

William always said that he wanted to know himself and be in control, but Hannibal knows that in reality, it’s easier for Will to give up control to someone else and let them take the reins.  With all that goes on in Will’s head, it has to be easier to allow someone control him, tell him what to do and how to do it.

Will does not want to admit it, however.  Hannibal needs him to allow that.  Will needs to see himself as he really is, not as he wants to be.

"Fuck," Will mutters, " _fuck_ ," but doesn’t stop moving.  His knees widen as he gets more comfortable, and Clarice fits into him like they were made for each other, like they were made for  _Hannibal_.

As they twitch and grind, an artless fumble that would be comical if it was not the only two people that he even has an iota of fondness for, he watches Will more than Clarice.

Clarice is still a mystery to him and will always be so, even though he has known her for quite a time, but he knows her tics and movements.  He knows what she looks like in the throes of passion, he knows what she looks like angry; he  _knows_  her because she has opened herself to him.

Will, though; Will has closed himself to people and to the world, keeping himself quiet and hidden away.  The less people know about him, or know him, the better for Will.  If he knows them, he will start becoming them, like he  _became_  Francis Dolarhyde and he  _became_ Garett Hobbs.  For him, it is about remaining himself.

Hannibal and Clarice could allow him to do that.  They all have their own demons, all of them, but Will has hidden his away and let them fester like a wound.

He watches as Will lets go for a moment, just this once, and sheds his skin, to simply  _be_.

His breath leaves his mouth in sharp pants, and Hannibal fancies that it would paint the loveliest painting would William let it, that Will could inhale air and exhale colors.

His hands grip the meat of Clarice’s thighs, and she’s letting him set the pace as they move, fluid and sinuous.  She sets her teeth into his neck and it makes him arch violently, leg muscles straining, mouth and eyes wide and unveiled.

He can smell the both of them; Clarice musky and Will sharp and it’s thick on his tongue.  He wants to pull them apart and devour the both of them, but he will not.  Not yet, at least, not until Will  _begs_  him for it.

Will is making little breathy noises, exhalations with tone, and he’s shaking; Hannibal wonders if he has gone without release with another since Molly left him.

He cries out sharply, holding Clarice down, and Hannibal viscerally wants to watch him come, but another time, perhaps.

Clarice lets him lie in repose for a few moments before she pries a hand off her thigh and under her peignoir and between her legs.  Will looks lost in sensation as she rides his fingers and it takes a minute for him to begin to interact with her, use her position to make it better for her.

He is skilled, his William.

Clarice presses her face against the mark that she left on his skin, breathy moans and whimpers leaving her lips.  Hannibal likes this version of Clarice, greedy and bent on her pleasure over others.  Hannibal loves this Clarice, because for so long she wanted to make others happy and live up to their expectations, and now she recognizes how important her own happiness is.

Hannibal has always wondered if she learned that from Ardelia Mapp, who was independent in a way that Clarice was not.

Will has his eyes closed, now, as Clarice breaths against his neck and says low things that Hannibal could hear but chooses not to.  This is between the two of them, the words, and he will have his moment with Will just as he has had his moments with Clarice.

"Please," Clarice says, “please, Will,  _god_ ," and with that, with those words, Will turns his face to hers and kisses her.  She arches against him, pushing back into his hands and then away, jerky rhythms. _  
_

A beat.  Her hips slam down to meet Will’s pelvis, and she moans out her orgasm.

Hannibal swears their mingled sounds paint the air.


	2. du

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the quote about china and dishwashers comes from Lee Muto, an old family friend and purveyor/restorer of many antique things. When mom bought me some monogrammed "K" china, that was what Lee said to us about. I think it's a good adage about china and dishes!! You can see what Lee's got [right here](http://colonialantiquemall.com/) and if you live in the NW Chicago suburbs, it is TOTALLY WORTH checking out.
> 
> also [here on tumblr](http://hannibalisms.tumblr.com/post/56761466724/chaque-chose-vaut-son-prix-du).

> _trauktis_

Clarice would call this "a tactical retreat," but for Hannibal it is a matter of propriety to make sure that both she and William are properly fed.

He had already dropped the spare sandwich from the deli into the trash, grimacing as Clarice ate hers, and his own hunger gnaws at his ribs and up into his chest cavity.

He has been having a longing for his homeland, the cold summer soups and simple meals that, although pedestrian, still light up his neurons with a fission of pleasure.

When Clarice noticed, rather than pity him or something else, she stood next to him in the kitchen and watched until she was brave enough to help him form [didžkukuliai](http://www.mamosreceptai.lt/receptai/didzkukuliai-cepelinai-1.html).  The mindless repetition reminded him of the few times his mother was in the kitchen, as it was below her stature, but the pleasure his father got from her pride as she carried the steaming plate was like gold to Hannibal.

The monotony of [ricing the potatoes](http://easteuropeanfood.about.com/od/lithuaniannoodles/ig/Lithuanian-Cepelinai/), forming them into patties encasing the spiced meat - lamb was his favorite, Mischa adored cheese, and his father venison - and then the topping of spirgučiai and grietinė.  Simple, but for growing up, they were rich and glorious.

He does not have many happy memories of Lithuania, but that is one of them.

As it is, he's had the makings for [šaltibarščiai](http://merlinandrebecca.blogspot.com/2010/11/gypsy-kitchens-saltibarsciai-lithuanian.html) in the fridge since they arrived in Louisiana, and it takes only moments to finish.

He carefully chooses some of the eggs they had bought in the morning - farm fresh, from the stall closest to the house and with the best selection of root vegetables - and hard boils them, listening to the creak of the stairs as one set of feet ascends.

While the eggs cook, he takes time to shuck his jacket and roll up his sleeves and don his apron.  It wouldn't do to stain his shirt with beet juice.

Crack, peel; the eggs shed their shells after cooking and there are footsteps as he adds the yolks to a bowl, to be mixed with the scallions and the grated beets.

He knows that it is Clarice by scent alone, the softness of her skin cream and the L'Air du Temps that he had not been able to convince her to leave for something better.

"Will is showering," she tells him, bringing him the kefyras from refrigerator and setting it down near the bowl that Hannibal is carefully scraping julienned cucumbers into, "in the guest room."

"Good," Hannibal responds, pouring the cooking liquid left from boiling the beets into the bowl and following it with the kefyras until the soup is thick and creamy.

Clarice hops onto the opposite counter, knowing his distaste for her sitting on the same counter that he is using to prepare food.  She watches him as he returns the bowl to the fridge, leaving it to chill as he begins preparations for the other part of their late meal.

[Virtiniai](http://www.myconsciouseating.com/2010/07/ukrainian-cherry-dumplings.html) are ridiculously easy to make, and they suit Clarice's palette well, so it leads Hannibal to think that Will would like them well enough.

"I don't think that he'll run," Clarice says, soft, and Hannibal turns from where he is pitting Ranier cherries.  "Running would imply weakness."

He has no words for her, so he turns back to pitting the cherries, setting some aside for [kissel](http://natashaskitchen.com/2012/07/17/homemade-juice-kompot/) and the rest for the dumplings.  Ordinarily, kissel does not have the meat of the fruit, but adding them in brings something to the dish.

He can feel Clarice watching him as he sets the pits aside, to be used for the kissel, and begins mixing the dough.  The dough that his childhood cook used was plain but elastic, firm enough to survive a rolling boil beautifully, and it is one of the few recipes that he has never had to alter.

He has made all the dumplings - three cherries in each - and has moved on to making the kissel when the stairs creak again and Clarice goes to meet William.

It is well and good that he is alone, so that no one may see the shiver that creeps down his spine.

> _žaizdos_

They talk softly in the hallway, and Hannibal closes them out in favor of making plates.

The homeowner had a surprisingly large collection of fine china - Haviland, Wawel, and Royal Crown Derby were his favorites, it seems - and he wavers between the [Darley Abbey](http://www.neimanmarcus.com/p/Royal-Crown-Derby-Darley-Abbey-Dinnerware/prod78520084/) and the [Oasis](http://www.neimanmarcus.com/p/Haviland-Oasis-Dinnerware/prod78440024/) before settling on the Oasis for its cleaner lines and delicate embellishments.

The sage of the plate will contrast nicely with the pinks and reds present in the meal, and lovely ivory napkins make everything pop.

The šaltibarščiai looks lovely in the bowls, pink vibrant against the green of the dill and the white of the eggs.  The virtiniai are similarly luscious, the red of the cherries just barely showing through the dough, but the blood red of the kissel artistically drizzled over them sets everything off.

He selects a favorite wine of his, a 1983 Château d'Yquem that is full-bodied and vigorous, but sweet as well; complex, too, with hints of caramel and marzipan.

Not a typical choice with fruit, but then, anything goes well with Château d'Yquem, for it can match in perfect harmony with many things.

It is a deep gold and the notes that come from the wine glasses are intoxicating, much like his present company; they enter the room, and Hannibal looks up.

 Will's hair is darker than he remembers, slicked back from his forehead but still curled tightly.

His cheeks are pinked from the heat of the water, the scars a bit paler, but his eyes are clear and his head is his own.

"It's nine thirty-two p.m. I am outside of Lafayette, Louisiana, in a Greek revival, antebellum plantation house.  My name is Will Graham," he says, "and you are Hannibal Lecter."

"Indeed," Hannibal answers, and gestures towards the table.  "Please, sit.  I've taken the liberty of pouring you an alternative beverage, William, in light of your past."

 "What did you choose?"

"It wouldn't do to ruin the surprise, my friend."

Hannibal pulls out a chair for Clarice at the small, round table and she sits down; when Will goes to sit Hannibal hurries to seat him as he did Clarice.

He knows that Will holds back a retort, but then he also knows that Will would not be intentionally rude; inadvertently rude, yes, but purposefully? No.

"[ _Gero apetito_](http://www.forvo.com/word/gero_apetito%21/#lt)," he tells them, "and you have the honor of being part of my first mostly vegetarian meal."

Will raises an eyebrow but lifts his soup spoon and begins.

Hannibal does not have an appetite as the others do; he likes large meals, once a day, with a light breakfast and perhaps a lunch.  Where others can graze all day long like common ungulates, Hannibal would much rather have one fabulous meal, several courses, with people he tolerates.

He watches Clarice and William eat, and they have both experienced this before; Clarice more than William, as it were, but he falls back into the pattern of avoiding eye contact soon enough.

There is a spot of pink at the corner of his lip.  Hannibal's eyes stray back to it so long as it remains, and when Will darts his tongue out to lick it away, Hannibal can only think that it was on purpose that he left it for so long.

When he catches Clarice's eye and she curls up one side of her mouth in a smirk, he  _knows_  that William did.

> _desertas_

They both praise the šaltibarščiai, which Hannibal had not anticipated; it is an acquired taste.

("I could have done without the eggs, though," William had said, "they made it all a bit overwrought," and Hannibal had just given him a look that had him ducking down to look at his plate.

When he went into the kitchen to get the virtiniai, Will and Clarice erupt into near-silent giggles.  Hannibal would be offended, if only it didn't mean that they were getting along and Will was close to being coaxed into their lives.)

When he comes back with the plates of virtiniai, kissel, and crème Chantilly balanced on the platter, Clarice grins because she loves any type of dumpling.

"What are those, Hannibal?"

It's the second time that Will has spoken during the meal, otherwise listening to Hannibal and Clarice converse.  That has always been his way.

Hannibal tells him and Will's face lights up.  This is the first time that Hannibal has seen him look as pleased as he does, and over something as little as boiled fruit dumplings.  He wonders, as he sets out the plates and serves the crème and kissel, if there had ever been anything to light William's face up as it did just then.

He could drown in the way that when Will smiles, it is as though he forgets, momentarily, what he is and what he does, and reverts back to sense of middle-American normalcy that no one in the room has ever had.

It makes him want to tear their dear William to pieces, consume his still beating heart and feed the rest to Clarice.

Instead, he lowers his eyes and eats.

> _porcelianas_

Clarice presses a kiss to his cheek, his chin, then his lips, and tells him that she's retiring upstairs to shower and sleep.  She does the same to Will, lingering over his face with her hands, just in case he does not stay.

Her want is palpable in the room, thick and viscose and  _delicious_.

As she limbs the stairs, Hannibal turns to where Will has his hands shoved in the pockets of his borrowed slacks.  Will does not look at him, but at the floor, the stair rail, anywhere but Hannibal.

"You're welcome to leave at any time, William.  If you do, kindly allow us a night to gather our things before reporting us to the authorities, will you?"

Hannibal picks up the plates, balanced on his forearms, and walks to the kitchen, his sanctuary.

He hears the jingle of keys.

The door opens, and then shuts.

The water upstairs, rushing through the old pipes, hides the sound of anything else.

He begins to wash the dishes, the soiled pots and pans first.  It is familiar and methodical, easy for him to let his attention lapse.

As such, he does not hear Will come back in, he does not hear him set down his keys on the entrance table, and he does not hear Will come careening into the kitchen to grab at the back of his dress shirt and send suds and water flying.

Will pulls him around as though he is nothing, weightless, and it makes Hannibal breathless with both anger and amusement.  Will's hands are at his shoulders and pulling him down just enough for a violent kiss, more a clash of mouths than anything else.

His mouth tastes of sour cherries and sweet crème, tart beets and a hint of the [ _apfelschorle_](http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schorle#Apfelschorle) that Hannibal had poured for him.  His teeth are sharp against the tip of Hannibal's tongue, and the taste of his own blood again is maddening.

He hits the edge of the counter, water soaking into the back of his dress shirt.  Hannibal wraps his hands around Will's neck as Will's hands scrabble at his hips, pushing and twisting and making a ruin of the fabric.

Hannibal's thumbs press into the belly of his digastric muscle, hard enough that Will yelps into the kiss and lets Hannibal push him away.

From there, though, he begins to fight, much like a cat would; teeth and nails rather than with muscle, rather than with his fists.

A fist digs into Hannibal's diaphragm and makes him breathless, but he still has his hands around Will's throat.  Will notches his head down, protecting his trachea, and twists in Hannibal's hands.

His other hand catches Hannibal at the hips once more and digs into his skin, close enough to the femoral nerve that little sparks of pain flit on the edges of Hannibal's consciousness.

Will is wheezing through Hannibal's hands, just enough to make Hannibal loosen his hands slightly and use the rounded curves of his knuckles rather than the tips of his fingers.

"Fuck you," Will manages, changing tactic and trying to pry Hannibal's fingers from his throat rather than fight back - or, continue fighting, as he was the one who began it.

> _imtynės_

"Oh?" Hannibal says, not even breathless, as Will struggles against him, panic and pain delicious to Hannibal.  He smells of sweet soap and sweat, fear and lust and so many other things mixed together. "I do not think so."

"You  _left,_ " Will chokes out, scratching at the back of Hannibal's hand hard enough that there will be a mark left, "You fucked me up and then you  _left_."

The "me" hangs in the air, unvoiced, but Hannibal can hear it just as much as Will can.

"You had me incarcerated, if you remember."

"God, Hannibal, because  _you were killing people_  because they were offensive, because you thought the world would be better without them! You let me figure it out and then when I still didn't know what I was going to do you  _gutted me_."

Hannibal manages to get Will to look up, hands wrapped around the base of his head, thumbs pressing into the platysma.  Will won't make eye contact with him, not until Hannibal shakes him a few times, violent with Will in a way that he has never been before.

"I have a highly tuned survival instinct.  I chose.  You would not have let me continue to remove those who did not deserve the lives they had, or those who would threaten you - or threaten Abigail, or Clarice.  It was not what I wanted to do, but what I had to do."

Will's eyes dart around the kitchen, flitting from cabinet to window to sink and then back.  "I wasn't," he begins, but stops, licks his lips, swallows.

"I wasn't going to tell them," he finishes, "if you promised me that you would try to stop."

Hannibal scoffs, thumbs pressing a little harder, Will's hands coming up to wrap around his wrists.  "Please, William, do not lie to me."

"I'm not," he says, "I'm  _not_ ," and Hannibal hears it for the truth, because Will has never been a good liar, no matter his other talents.

"You said, you said to me once that people are afraid of me for the wrong reasons, that they should be afraid of what I could be and not what I  _was_.  But you weren't afraid, no matter what I did - when I showed up at your house sleepwalking, when I thought Hobbs was following me, when it all fucking blew up - you  _weren't_ ," Will tells him, breath coming quick and shallow, pressing into his hands now rather than away.  "You were never afraid, you let me be who I was and didn't try to change me."

Hannibal does not say anything, but lets Will continue, lets him speak what he has been holding in.

"I wanted that, but  _fuck_ , Hannibal, when I figured it out - when I figured out that it was you I felt stupid because I could see it but I didn't want to see it.  Whoever did it was an  _artist_  and I was so - so fucking disturbed because they were  _meant_  for me.  And, and I freaked out because it didn't bother me but I knew that I should so when I got there that day, I was planning on telling you, and explaining, but I never got that far." _  
_

Will tilts his head back, and Hannibal can see his jugular pulsing against the thin skin there, alive and thick.  "I should have told you," Will whispers, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.  "You never let on anything, not until the end, not until Dolarhyde."

> _estetika_

Will's eyes close and he waits, waits for whatever it is that Hannibal is willing to give to him.

"I lost myself, and then you," Will say on an exhale, a breath.

"You weren't going to come in," Hannibal murmurs, leaning in towards Will to scent him again, sweet and deep.

"I haven't seen you in years, and then you pop up in my town, a missing person in tow - what else was I going to  _do_ , Hannibal?"

Hannibal doesn't answer, because he cannot admit, even to Will, that it hurt him to have to try and remove Will from his life, because of a fear - a fear that Will would betray him, a fear of finding Will to be a part of him, a fear of an affection that he had not felt since Mischa.

Clarice had brought it out of him, after he thought that perhaps Mischa could take her place in the world, but Clarice showed him that Mischa had a place in  _him_.  But Will?  Will was a wild card, an unexpected variable.  Hannibal had not anticipated the width and breadth of his affection for Will.

He did not like unexpected variables in his life.  They made for messy endings.

(A voice, deep in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like his father, reminds him that he has every right to be happy.  His aunt had said something similar, but he paid her no mind at the time and still does not today.

Will is part of that life, he reminds himself, and Hannibal may not have to coax Will nearly as much as he thought that he would.)

The water shuts off upstairs, jolting them both out of the moment.  Will does not look Hannibal in the eyes, but somewhere below, until he can't seem to stand it any more and he rolls his head back, showing his throat again,  _submitting_.

"It was always you," Will says, breaking the silence.  "I wouldn't - no, I  _couldn't_  give this to anyone else."

"What of Clarice?" Hannibal asks, stroking his thumbs over the plains of Will's cheeks, feeling his face again as Will's tongue gathers moisture from the corners of his mouth.

"I - I don't know."

"She desires you, as I do."  It's the first time that Hannibal has admitted it out loud, because for Clarice it was implied; Will needs that verbal association, however.  Will needs to be told, and re-told, not because he is needy or because he is selfish, but because he forgets.  He forgets that he is wanted, desired, because his own mind turns against him and allows others inside to twist and muddle his perceptions.

"I don't know her."

"You can, if you wish it."

Will makes eye contact with him for a long moment.  Hannibal has never noticed the flecks of green in his eyes, and Hannibal wants to keep them forever - carve them out in this moment and preserve them, so that he will always have them as clear and as wide as they are now.

> _neryžtingumas_

"Someday," Will answers, not really an answer, but it is enough.

Hannibal pulls away from Will, putting a foot of space between them.  Will looks lost, adrift, until Hannibal hands him a dish towel.

"Dry, please," Hannibal says, and returns to the dishes as though their altercation never happened.

Will doesn't move for a moment, just watching as Hannibal wipes up the suds and water from the counter and ignoring the wet cling of his shirt.

Hannibal glances back at him, then down at the dishes, and Will takes the hint, slowly drying the dishes and being careful not to break them.  They are fine china, as it is, and though Hannibal lives by the rule of "if you cannot wash it in the dishwasher, it's not worth buying" the china does not belong to him, so he treats it carefully.

When all the dishes and cutlery are dry, they put the items away; a strange kind of peace surrounds them, because Will had done this before with Hannibal on the occasion that he was invited to the kitchen.  It's different, simply because this house is not Hannibal's and therefore is not constructed as Hannibal had (and has) his, but they finish soon enough.

When they are both complete, Will stands awkwardly in the doorway.  He fidgets, fingering the hem of his borrowed shirt, a [gauche red number](http://www.barneys.com/Barneys-New-York-Solid-Dress-Shirt/502351393,default,pd.html?cgid=mens-shirts-dress&index=44) that Hannibal had regretted buying but could not return, simply because he thought he might find something to match it with.

On Will, though, it brings out the deepened color of his skin, the red of his lips, the russet tones to his hair.  For Will, it is stunning.

Hannibal decides that he may keep it.

"I cannot give you love," Hannibal begins, "because I am not created for it.  I will give you what I can, as much as I can.  Just as I do with Clarice; I give her what she needs and wants, and it would delight me to do the same for you."

Hannibal wipes his hands once on the towel he is holding, then drapes it over the edge of the sink to dry.

"I am not kind in the way that most people are; I will do what I feel is best, and I do not take kindly to contradictions.  You know this.  But, I am not cruel - not unless it is asked of me.  If this is what you want, I will give it to you; I will take from you."

In a few strides, Hannibal has Will pinned against the counter, much like Will had done before; they are aligned hip to hip, chest to chest, but Will submits beautifully to him.

"if you betray us, however, I will take delight in taking you apart, piece by piece, while you are conscious.  You will feel every cut, every incision, and you will regret what you have done and what you have become."  Hannibal drags his nose up the curve of Will's cheek, taking his scent in deeply, memorizing it and locking it up deep within his mind palace.  "You will mourn yourself before you are dead."

Will makes a high noise in his throat and for once Hannibal cannot discern the meaning of it, not until Will turns his face to him, eyes closed and mouth open.

His head tilts back until it must actually be painful, and the moment of pure submission is so gloriously stunning and beautiful that it stoppers the breath in Hannibal's throat.

Will swallows and Hannibal cannot resist the bob of his throat and he sets his teeth there, no pleasure inherent in the bite, just pain and claiming.  The mark is deep red, close to purple, when Hannibal pulls away, but no blood has been spilled.  It looks beautiful against the paleness of Will's throat, a strange counterpart to the white scars.

"Hannibal," Will says, and in those words he hears surrender and peace, something that Will has not ever had, not in Wolf Trap, not in Florida; only in Baltimore, and only with Hannibal.

"Good," Hannibal murmurs, and the tone of his voice makes Will shiver and quake under him, and Hannibal is going to take him apart.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: [here’s the house](http://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/107-Stonehenge-Rd_Lafayette_LA_70503_M71125-06924) i keep going back to, for reference.
> 
> also [here on tumblr](http://hannibalisms.tumblr.com/post/59264338953/chaque-chose-vaut-son-prix-three).

> _beginnings_

Hannibal crowds Will up the stairs, turning off lights as they go; it would not do to leave them on. Hannibal watches Will walk, they way he still favors his left knee from a fall as a teenager. It gives him an unintentional sway, as though he is trying to be attractive, though he never would.

He pauses at the top of the stairs and waits for Hannibal, who cannot resist coming up behind him, plastered against his back. He pushes his nose against the back of Will’s ear, where the sweat gathers and his hair curls. Hannibal presses a hand to Will’s stomach, feeling the quiver in his muscles, the other resting on his hip.

Will lets him scent him, smell him, and it reminds Hannibal of the years he has lost with William and the wrongs that were between them. He allows his tongue to dart out, taste his skin in the most natural of places. He tastes of salt and smoke, not the acrid bitterness of a cigarette but the warmth of a fire, perhaps from his homestead. He tastes of grease, just a little, but he is overwhelmingly pure. William is not one for the trappings of haute couture.

Will tilts his head back to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder, eyes closed, a little smile on his face. Hannibal is surprised, simply because he did not know that Will would want this and certainly did not anticipate that he would be willing to submit.

"What do you feel?" Hannibal asks, voice soft, but wary that the moment will end.

"Warm," Will says, "comfortable, almost. Scared, too, but - not of you. Just scared."

"Not scared, but wary, perhaps?"

"Yeah," Will breathes, one hand coming to press against Hannibal’s. His fingers are rough, a little scratchy around the nail beds, but clearly Will does try to take care of himself.

That is something different from before; Will didn’t care for himself, but only the dogs, perhaps Abigail and Alana, but never himself. To care for himself was not a thought, not something that was important to him unless it was made important by someone else - by Hannibal, or Jack, or Molly.

"Where are you?"

"Ah," Will breathes, "with you, in Louisiana."

"Good," Hannibal murmurs, pressing his lips to the curve of Will’s throat, and steers them towards the master suite.

The light is still on, as Hannibal knew it would be; Clarice is engrossed in some trash literature (“It’s a  _romance_  novel, Hannibal, not trash!”) and has wanted to finish it.

She looks up as they enter, reading glasses slipping down her nose. She smiles a little but doesn’t move from her spot on the bed.

Will makes a soft noise, pleased and content, and it’s not something that Hannibal would have ever expected to hear from his William.  Will was never content, never truly happy, but here, it seems, he could be.

Molly and her son gave him the feeling of happiness, but there was always the lurking monster in his head, the knowledge that there was something more there for him.  Will  _knew_  that there were people who did not fear him, or were fearful for the right reasons.

Hannibal is not afraid of Will; rather, he fears  _for_  Will, worries that his psyche will play the wrong games with him.  This is not to say that Hannibal isn’t the cause of that; he is, and rightly so.  He gave Will the push to see himself, see  _Hannibal_  in himself, and it smacks of glory.

Will’s eyes open slowly, takes in the decor of the room, takes in Clarice, and settles back against Hannibal.

Clarice closes her book on her finger to mark her page and moves to the wing back chair by the balcony, the doors ajar to let in the sweet summer breeze.  It’s humid but pleasant, warmth blanketing them.

Hannibal smiles at her and she returns it, because she can read William just as well as he can.  Will is not yet ready for the both of them, but he is ready to be seen by the both of them.  He is ready to be on display for them, a beautiful centerpiece.

Hannibal stands him in front of the bed, in front of the hope chest there.  Will holds his arms loose at his side, relaxed.  He seems sure of himself, sure of what he wants, and it fills Hannibal with some strange joy.  He wonders how long it took Will to be comfortable with that, how long it took for Will to see himself as a person and not just a vessel for his eidetic talents.

Will watches as Hannibal presses a kiss to Clarice’s forehead, breathing in the scent of her skin and the shower lotion she uses.  He locks eyes with her, almost asking permission but rather making sure that she is pleased with the outcome of her efforts.

She very clearly is, the way her nose wrinkles when she smiles up at him, how she is not at all abashed about what she has done.

When Hannibal turns back to him, Will smiles; a real smile, not the one that he gave Hannibal so long ago, but one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.  It’s very pleasing to Hannibal, making warmth course through his veins, light up his neurons and spark fissions of pleasure.

Will tilts his head up and Hannibal unbuttons his shirt front, not letting his fingers graze Will’s skin.  Not yet.  Will holds up his wrists and Hannibal unbuttons the cuffs, taking care to brush over his veins and the sensitive skin on the inside.  Taking a bite of the soft flesh there would be easy, and Will’s skin is pale here where it is nut brown everywhere else.

With a shrug of his shoulders, the shirt falls off, only to be caught around his elbows; Hannibal lets him struggle for a moment before helping Will get it off, letting his fingers finally brush Will’s skin.  Will shivers, goose-flesh running up and down his arms; Hannibal knows it is not from the ambient temperature.

The first thing that he notices is the scar across Will’s stomach, carved so long ago with his own hands.  Hannibal scrapes across it with his fingernails, presses in slightly, and Will sucks in a quick breath.

"Does it pain you, still?"

"No.  It’s - sensitive? But numb, at the same time."  Will watches as Hannibal presses his fingers onto the scar, and around it, feeling out his own wound.

"What of the others?"

Will reaches up with one hand, gently touching the scars that bisect his face.  ”They don’t feel like much of anything.  They’re more sensitive.”

"I shan’t apologize," Hannibal murmurs, "but I admit that I do feel a twinge of regret."

This makes Will chuckle, looking down for a moment and then up through his lashes.  ”I would never expect you to do so.”

"He’s too proud, by far," Clarice adds, and Will grins at her over Hannibal’s shoulder.  It pleases him that they can interact with each other, that they are willing to speak and be with each other.  It gives him hope that they will want to be together as they should, a triad.

"It looks good on him, though," Will responds, his eyes flicking from Clarice to Hannibal.

Hannibal lets out a huff and pinches Will in the side, a little reminder that he is right there, thank you, and it makes Will grip his hand and hold it against his side.

"Impertinence," Hannibal murmurs, but he shakes Will’s hand off to grip him by the back of the neck and pull him in for a kiss.  It’s almost just a meeting of lips until Will opens his mouth and lets Hannibal in.

> _middles_

Will squirms against him, hands first grasping Hannibal’s shirt, still damp, then his hips, then his back, fingers pressing into the muscle and scratching.

"Please," Will says, puling away from Hannibal only to press kisses along his jaw, up to his ear, back down, " _please_ , Hannibal.”

"Please, what?"

Will moans, dropping his head to press his face into Hannibal’s neck, nips at the skin once or twice before he can find his words.  

"I want you," he starts, breaking off to take a breath and breathe in Hannibal and then continues, "I want you to fuck me, Hannibal, please."

"Ah," Hannibal says, curling a hand into Will’s hair, tugging his head back so that Will has to look him in the eye.  His pupils are dilated wide, the iris barely showing, his brain pumped full of serotonin and dopamine.  "Do you deserve it, William?"

“ _Yes_ ,” he pleads, “I do, please.”

"Then you must do as I say, do you understand?  You must, or else we will stop.  Yes?"

"Okay, I understand, I’ll listen, you  _know_  I’m good at listening,” Will rushes, “I promise, Hannibal.”

"Good.  Sit, please."

Will plops himself down on the hope chest, fingers clenching and unclenching, waiting to be told what to do.  Hannibal picks up the shirt they dropped on the floor and shakes out the wrinkles, folding it neatly and placing it on the chair that Clarice is not occupying.

He strips off his own shirt and inspects the water stains on it; it is a lost cause, but it’s not important, as the shirt was one of his least favorites.  He tosses it into the bathroom, mindless of where it lands.  He’ll dispose of it later, in the manner that they have become accustomed to.

"Hannibal," Will says, almost a whine.

"Patience."  Hannibal looks at him over his shoulder and Will is clearly aroused, cock straining against his pants.  He could be lost in his own pleasure, but he remains where Hannibal has told him to sit.

He strips his belt from the loops and snaps it; Will jumps at the sound but doesn’t move.  Hannibal is pleased.  Perhaps later on, Hannibal’s other predilections will be accommodated.  Clarice will only take so many commands; she is strong-willed to the last.  Will, though … Will is more malleable, but not a pushover.  Will has the right temperament to be controlled, have his movements dictated to him, at least some of the time.

He hangs the belt in the wardrobe and strips out of his pants, slipping them onto a hanger.  Will watches him, eyes roving over his form.  Hannibal appreciates it, but is surprised all the same.  The years were not kind to him while incarcerated; he will never be as fit as he was prior to that.  Clarice tells him that she cannot see any difference, but then, she did not know him as he was, just how he  _is_.  Will’s appreciation pleases him.

Clarice catches his hand and tugs him down for a kiss, just a quick one, and Hannibal knows that she is pleased with the situation.  Clarice is and always has been an observer, content to watch and assess the situation.

Hannibal presses a kiss to her knuckles and turns back to Will, focusing his attention fully upon the other man.

For some it would unnerve them, and it has done to Will before, but Will preens under it, stretches his neck in submission, bows to Hannibal and his control.

"Stand up, please."

Will does, wobbling on his feet for a moment before he settles.  Hannibal crouches in front of him and coaxes one leg up, and Will’s hands go to his shoulders for balance.  He strips off Will’s socks and looks at the bottom of his feet.  The scars from his nighttime wanderings have faded, but some of them are still pink and jagged.

He tests the strength of Will’s ankles and arches, under his pants to test the meat of his calves.  He reaches up, still in a crouch, and unclasps the borrowed dress pants.  He pays no mind to Will’s erection, but follows the pants with his fingers, tracing over his hips and his thighs and back down until Will steps out out them.

Hannibal straightens and folds Will’s pants, which are still damp from their altercation in the kitchen.  He sets them with Will’s shirt, both of which need a wash.

Will is trembling when Hannibal turns back to him, shaking from nerves and anticipation, the adrenaline having worn off.  Hannibal takes his hands to Will’s face and holds him still, waiting until Will looks him in the eye.

"What are you thinking?"

Will doesn’t speak for a moment, trying to find the words.  ”I’m nervous, I’ve never - not with another man - but I want you,” he manages, hands fluttering around Hannibal’s waist, not touching but clearly wishing to do so.

"If you do not wish this," Hannibal starts, but Will interrupts.

"No, I do, I want it, I just - I don’t know what to expect and I don’t  _like_  that,” he tells Hannibal, shaking his head like a dog coming out of water to clear its ears.  His hands settle on Hannibal’s chest, over his heart, feeling the beat.  ”But I know you.”

Hannibal nods.  ”Do you trust me?”

The question makes will go back a little, cock his head in wonder.  It has to be a difficult question for him, their past making it difficult to answer.  Will does not trust lightly, but neither do Hannibal nor Clarice; they’ve learned to be careful with that gift.  Trust has not gained Will much, but then, Hannibal has never lied to Will, not about anything.  He has omitted some of the truth, yes, that is true, but he has never outright lied to him.  He could never do so.

This is all up to Will, this decision.  Hannibal cannot make it for him, much as he would love to do so.  He cannot and will not force Will into something that he does not want.

Will opens his mouth once, twice, and then sets his jaw.  ”I trust you.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, just surges forward and kisses him, eats away at his mouth until Will is whimpering and arching against his hands and towards his body.  Hannibal pulls back for a moment, lets Will breathe, and then comes back to nip at his lips, coax him out of passivity.  He becomes a live wire, fingers pressing between Hannibal’s ribs.

He moans into it, shifts his hips to Hannibal’s, matches him and works his cock against Hannibal, and Hannibal lets him, simply because Will is graceful in all his artlessness and desperation.

"Please," Will whispers, "Hannibal," and it’s that last plead that sets him aflame.  It makes him remember Will’s passion about his job, no matter what it is - crime, boats, anything - and how Will  _could_  apply that to other things, if only he wanted to.

Hannibal does not know what it is that Will sees when he looks at him, but it makes Will shiver when Hannibal forces him away from his neck and onto the bed.

"Stay," Hannibal tells him, and goes to the side table to find the tube of lubrication, newly purchased and unused.

He can only focus on Will right now; Will, who lies panting on the bed, Will, who is flushed with arousal, and Will, who is sweating not because of a night terror but because he is  _wanting_.

Hannibal stands at the side of the bed, just watching Will.  He could watch Will for  _hours_ , simply watch him exist, because Will has always fascinated him.  They are alike, and yet different.

But this Will -  _this_  Will is new and glorious, reformed for  _Hannibal_.

"Off," Hannibal says, and Will raises his hips off the bed, the strength in his legs still astounding; Will’s boxers come off and he throws them somewhere over the opposite side of the bed.

Hannibal can only look at him for a long moment.  The years were relatively kind to Will, physically; he is much as Hannibal remembers him.  There is more strength in his arms and legs, more grey to his hair, but he does not at all look his age.  

He is circumcised, which is not surprising, but a little upsetting for Hannibal.  He does not want to think about other people touching William as he has, or think about people  _mutilating_  William in such a way.  He is no longer in his natural state, but he is with Hannibal now.

Hannibal slides onto the bed and sits next to Will’s hip, leaning over him.  He fits one hand around Will’s throat and Will lets him, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  He doesn’t try to pull away, just lets Hannibal put a claim on him.  Hannibal doesn’t squeeze, but only rests his hand there.  He traces his finger over Will’s Adam’s apple, feeling the pulse of blood and the movement of the muscles as he swallows.

"Good, William.  Good," Hannibal tells him, voice soft.  "You’re doing quite well."

Will smiles, opening his eyes a little to watch Hannibal’s movements.  His arms are relaxed at his sides, palms up; his knees are splayed wide and his breaths are deep and long.

"Do you know what you are feeling?  What it is called, this euphoria?"

Will shakes his head, moving under Hannibal’s hand.

"Your neural system is steadily releasing epinephrine, endorphins, and enkephalins, which produces the same effects as morphine or similar drugs.  Your pain tolerance is going up, and will continue to do so the further we go.  Eventually, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in and you will feel a deep exhaustion and, perhaps, incoherence.  Upon reaching the height of this experience, all sensation of pain may fade, as continual stimulus prolongs the period of ‘floating’ or ‘flying.’"

"Thus, any experiences in this have to be performed by someone competent and who knows the hard and soft limits of their partners.  For us, those shall take time, but I have a vague idea of what you will or will not do.  It is dangerous to do this with someone you do not know, because of the lack of pain responses.  Luckily, we know each other quite well."

"We do," Will murmurs, his lips barely moving.  His eyes are partially shut, making him look drowsy and unfocused, but all of his attention is on Hannibal and on what Hannibal is doing.

Hannibal taps his thumb against the pulse in Will’s throat, matching it beat for beat.  Will’s eyes slip shut, breath evening out and slowing, but his arousal does not flag.  It’s a curious thing to Hannibal that Will would surrender to anyone, but at the same time - it makes sense.  Will has always sought stability, but has never gotten it.  To allow someone to take control of him - if only for a few hours - lets Will  _get_  that stability.

Clarice is moving in the background but, at the moment, his eyes are for Will.  Soon enough they will all be together - sooner rather than later, if Clarice has anything to say about it - but for now, William needs attention.

"William," Hannibal says, and Will’s eyes open, pupils blown wide.  It’s a glorious look for him.  "If you have any misgivings, you should voice them now; otherwise, there will be no pause."

Will blinks, slow and unhurried, and it’s as though it is taking all of his energy to speak, to move from the languid state that Hannibal has lulled him into.  His lips part and he breathes out a few times before they lift into a smile.

"I trust you," he says, hand going from his side to touch Hannibal’s forearm, stroking his fingers down his arm for a moment before falling back to his side.  "I  _trust_  you.”

"I have begun to think it is, perhaps, unwise to do so, but I cherish your assurances," Hannibal answers, voice soft.

"Can we," Will starts, then pauses, biting at his lips and then wetting them with his tongue before beginning again, though not in full sentences.  "Can we, um, like this?"

Hannibal cocks his head, considering Will’s request, poorly worded as it was.  Will is not in any place to demand things, but then, he has  _asked_  Hannibal to indulge him.

Hannibal indulges Clarice, and so he will indulge William.

> _endings_

William is incandescent in his pleasure.  Hannibal had thought that Clarice was wonderous and stunning in that she was not afraid to make Hannibal work for it and that she was not afraid to tell him what she wanted, but William is  _different_.  

Will is pliant but sturdy, and where Hannibal moves him he stays unless it is to re-brace himself or turn his head to breathe.  

He smiles as Hannibal touches him, just strokes of his hands at first.  Hannibal ushered him onto his knees and Will had gone slowly, tentative, afraid he would be made to stay there, but Hannibal reassures him with touch and a press of his lips.

Hannibal maps out his body with his fingers, tracing scars and memorizing freckles and moles.  He keeps his hands on Will, switching from his palms to his fingertips but never not touching, never leaving Will untouched.

By the time that Hannibal has committed him to memory, storing his reactions away (a jolt as Hannibal strokes over the bends of his knees, a sigh as his fingers press into the hollows between his ribs, a moan as Hannibal rubs his thumbs over his [Venusian dimples](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dimples_of_Venus)) so he can replicate them over, and over, and over.

Hannibal does not allow Will to experience his tongue until Will is resting on his chest and knees, completely boneless aside from where his legs hold him up.  His skin tastes of salt and smoke and soap, clean but not, something precious.  He wants to carve out swathes of his skin and meat and keep it, but Will is better alive than dead, Hannibal has learned that.

He tastes good  _everywhere_ , from the back of his neck to the bends of his elbows to the soft meat of his thighs.  By the time that Hannibal has left his mark on Will, circles of teeth that are livid and wet, Will’s panting and moaning into the sheets, pressing back into Hannibal’s hands and mouth. _  
_

There are words slipping from in between Will’s lips, and Hannibal strains to understand them.  He does, finally; it’s “please,” over and over, and his name, strained and thin.

That’s what breaks Hannibal, how Will’s tongue twists around the syllables of his name, making it longer and pleading, a prayer to a macabre god.

He wants to take Will apart, but he remembers his promise, his words, and vows that it will happen someday soon.  Soon he will take William apart and then reassemble him into perfection.

He indulges his taste predilections and opens Will up on his tongue first, mindless of what Will may or may not have; after all, he has taken so much care in cultivating his body that Hannibal doubts he would put himself or others in danger.  Will is lovely and responsive, much like Clarice when he pleases her with his mouth, but they are totally different.

Where Clarice is an active partner, guiding his head or his tongue or making demands, Will is passive but no less responsive.

He arches and moans and writhes against Hannibal’s tongue, mindless noises as he clutches the comforter and  _begs_.

Hannibal needs to tell him so; he pulls away for a moment and says, “You beg so prettily, William, so well,” and the noise he gets in response is  _delicious_.

Even though he has not ever been with Will, he can tell when he is close; his thighs begin to quake and his moans take a higher pitch.  He begins to move more frantically, egging Hannibal on, making him want to get Will to come from his mouth and hands alone, but that is not  _really_  what he wants.

Hannibal pulls away and the noise Will makes can only be described as broken and disappointed, but he ceases when Hannibal rolls him gently.  It’s as though Will would never expect gentleness or kindness from Hannibal, because he flinches for a moment as though expecting a strike that never comes.

Briefly, Hannibal wonders who made William flinch so.  They would make a delectable [blanquette de veau](http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blanquette_de_veau), he decides, but the time will come for that decision.

He opens him up on his fingers, slow at first, but then faster as Will sinks into languor and relaxes.  It’s sweet in Hannibal’s mouth, and he wants to carve out Will’s tongue to keep for all the wonderful things his mouth says.  Will’s knees are bent to the side, spread to allow Hannibal between them.

When Hannibal locates his prostate, Will jams his fist into his mouth to keep from shouting.

That will not  _do_.  He stops moving and pinches Will hard enough on the thigh that there will be a bruise in the morning, a reminder of what Hannibal has done to him and what Hannibal  _can_  do to him.

Will looks up from where he threw his head back on the pillows and Hannibal stares him down.

"Hands on the bed," he says.

Will obeys without hesitation.

"If you don’t keep them there, you will not be allowed to come.  Do you understand?"

Will nods, fervent.  ”Yes, Hannibal, I - I understand, I’ll listen.”

"Good boy," Hannibal murmurs, and continues to stretch him.  He doesn’t search out Will’s prostate often, just enough to keep him on edge, keep him begging so nicely, but soon enough his control begins to slip.

It happens as his hair falls into his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead and beginning to travel down his neck.

He thinks of Will as a perfectly planned main course meal, intricately garnished and created, laid out for his consumption.

He keeps his hands gentle, more gentle than he has with people in the past, but he can only contain it for so long.

He is not a kind man, inherently, though he can indulge that whim on occasion.

It is then that he pulls out his fingers and Will gasps, rough, and makes Hannibal bare his teeth in a snarl, hungry and  _wanting_.

He can see the moment that Will recognizes this Hannibal, the man that killed the rude unrepentantly, the man that was willing to gut someone he cared for in order to save his own skin, the man that got someone to swallow their own tongue after they offended Clarice.

He sees  _Hannibal_ , and it makes him offer his neck in submission.

Hannibal looses time for a moment, like he did in the time after Mischa’s death, but this is  _pleasant_ , comforting; he comes back and he’s fucking Will, slow and steady, possessive.

Will tries to meet him but cannot because of the rules that Hannibal has given him.

Hannibal gives, and Will takes; Hannibal takes, and Will gives.

Hannibal turns Will’s head from where it has fallen to the side with wet fingers and bends him in half for a kiss that Will welcomes, not caring about where Hannibal’s mouth has been (and Hannibal would be a liar if he said that the thought did not amuse him).

His eyes are closed.

"Look at me," Hannibal says against his lips, and Will obeys, eyes unfocused for a moment before he connects.  "You may move your hands, but you may not touch yourself," Hannibal adds, and Will’s hands fly to Hannibal’s shoulders, short nails pressing in on the good side of pain.

Will’s mouth falls open with a gasp and it  _unhinges_  Hannibal with the honesty in the noise, the beauty that he has only ever connected with Clarice, and he is afraid for the feelings that fill his chest for William at that moment. _  
_

He is aflame, and Will is the spark.

One day, maybe, they will make love (or whatever they choose to call it) but right now, Hannibal knows that they both need it rough and frantic.

It changes from there; Hannibal is bent on finding his pleasure only after Will has found his. That is not negotiable, not at all.

Hannibal fucks him hard and fast, possessing him, marking him as  _Hannibal’s_ , making Hannibal a part of him.  His fingers bite into Will’s hips and Will’s fingers scrape down his arms, scoring red lines and it makes Hannibal grin, feral and violent.

When Will screws his eyes shut Hannibal doesn’t make him open them, because he knows that it has to be hard for Will like this, connected so intimately to someone.  It has to terrify him.

Everything is brilliant and hot, so warm that Hannibal thinks his skin might melt off, slough to the bed in sheets, all from Will.

It’s over too soon for Hannibal’s tastes, because all of a sudden Will is clawing up his arms and begging, “Hannibal, please, I’m going to -  _Hannibal, please, god_ ,” and Hannibal cannot deny him.

He presses Will down again; with a moan, Hannibal says, “William, come for me,” and sinks his teeth down into Will’s neck.

With a shout and one of Hannibal’s hands wrapped around his cock, Will comes and it seems to burn through him, shake him to his core, but he doesn’t stop Hannibal from fucking him through it and after, chasing his own release relentlessly.

His thrusts are still sharp and well-timed, finding Will’s prostate every other, but he is quiet in his own release.  His hips still slowly, but he doesn’t pull out for a long moment.

Will’s hands are slack against his thighs, marked by his own orgasm, but he’s smiling, face soft and lax with pleasure.

"William," Hannibal says, and Will’s eyes slide open, still glazed with pleasure.

"Mmm," Will manages, and loops a clumsy arm around Hannibal’s neck to pull him down for a kiss, then another, until they’re kissing more than not.

The bed dips and they part to find Clarice sitting on the edge, damp washcloth in her hands.  Hannibal takes it from her and cleans them, softly, carefully.

Will’s mouth drops open and his brow creases as Hannibal leaves him, but his face smooths as Hannibal settles down next to him, pressing his nose against Will’s temple.

Clarice leaves the bed with a smile, sitting down at her vanity to begin her nightly routine.

"Mmm," Will says again, fingers crawling from his own thighs to Hannibal’s hip, curling around the bone and sweeping his thumb over his iliac crest.

Hannibal crowds against him, rolling him onto his side to allow their legs to sprawl together.  ”I seem to have rendered you speechless,” he murmurs, lips grazing Will’s ear.

"Don’t be too full of yourself," Will replies, eyes sliding halfway open to make eye contact with Hannibal.  His eyes are still glassy, but they focus easily.

"You give me good reason; you are an exquisite sight."

Will huffs and tucks his head under Hannibal’s chin.  ”I don’t fit in here, Hannibal.  I never understood why you - liked me.”

Hannibal rolls his words in his mouth for while, watching the stars through the window.  ”You are inexplicably beautiful, William.  Do not doubt my sincerity.”

Will huffs again but doesn’t speak.

They watch Clarice together as she combs out her hair and cleans her face; she’s naturally stunning in a way that neither man can believe.  The play of her muscles in her arms and back make Will nuzzle into Hannibal’s throat, and Hannibal whispers to him again; he neither knows nor cares if Clarice can hear him.

"She is gorgeous, is she not?  We are blessèd, yes?"

Will nods against Hannibal’s throat but doesn’t speak.

Clarice stands and stops in front of the hope chest at the foot of the bed, hips cocked.  ”May I join in the naked slumber party?”

"Always, Clarice," Hannibal answers.

She slips of the peignoir and folds it, skin golden in the low light.  Before she gets in bed, she turns off the lights and locks the windows low.  She shuts the screens on the doors but leaves them open for the night breeze.

She snaps off the bedside lamp and slides in with them, pulling at the duvet until they are all under it.  She slings an arm around Hannibal’s waist, knuckles brushing against Will’s abdomen.

Will lets her, eyes closed, almost asleep, but soon enough he wiggles his arm under hers, the two of them caging in Hannibal.

He doesn’t mind a bit.

They sleep.

> _epitaphs_

Hannibal wakes alone, and for a moment his anger almost boils over, but then he smells fine coffee coming up the stairs.

Clarice always drinks coffee in the morning, and William did as well, so they must be drinking it together.  It pleases him, that they’re coming together and interacting.

He dresses as casually as he can manage - slacks and a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and top buttons left undone - and makes his way downstairs, quietly, not wanting to disturb Will and Clarice’s moment.

They’re stretched out on a sofa, Will at one end and Clarice at the other, her feet in his lap.  He has one hand on his coffee mug and the other rubbing circles into her ankle.  He can see their reflection in the front window, though they cannot see him.

"But how did you forgive him?"

"Time," Clarice answers.  "Is there any other way?  It was hard, but at the same time, I knew what I wanted.  After time, I knew what I wanted, and I knew that I wanted to forgive Hannibal.  I haven’t forgotten what he’s done, but, in a way, I understand his motivations, if anyone ever could."

"Even after seeing them?"

Clarice makes an abortive little shrug.  ”Even then.  It doesn’t - I mean, I still think it was wrong, but I know now that Hannibal won’t.  He promised me, when we started this, that he wouldn’t unless someone tried to harm us.  He hasn’t killed anyone as far as I know, not since Florence.”

"I still see them, sometimes.  The people he killed.  But - but not as crime scenes, but works of art, because that’s what they  _were_ , that’s what Hannibal intended them to be, and it makes me sick sometimes, it does, but I don’t care, you know?”

Clarice leans forward and holds Will’s hand, wrapping her fingers around his.  ”I  _do_  know.  And I know how difficult it can be to reconcile Hannibal, part of him as the consummate gentleman, and the other part as a - well, a cannibalistic serial killer.”

Will snorts a laugh.  ”Don’t beat around the bush, or anything.”

"I wouldn’t do you that disservice, William.  I know you’re too smart for that.  You knew Hannibal before I did, and I recognize that.  It’s up to you if you can live with him like this.  I can.  I only had three people I cared about, and two of them are dead.  The other is happy, and knows I’m alive."

"Crawford and Bingham," Will mumbles.  "I remember that.  I went to Jack’s funeral."

Clarice nods.  ”And Ardelia’s happy with her husband and her boys, and I send her a letter when I can.  She sends ‘em back to a post office box in Wisconsin.”

"Do you miss her?"

"Ardelia?  Naw, I put her through enough.  I love her like a sister, but I wouldn’t trade what I’ve got here to go back to her.  We agreed a year or two back that there’s not a place for me there.  My place is here."

Will takes a drink of his coffee and lifts Clarice’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

"Only you can decide where your place is, Will."

> _epilogues_

The pickup trundles down the expressway; it’s an old ['55 Chevy Advance Design](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chevrolet_Advance_Design) that Will picked years ago, right after coming back to Louisiana.  It’s not in the best shape, but he loves it, and wouldn’t trade it for the world.

It’s got everything that means something to him in the back, aside from the dogs, who he found good homes for.  Most of them went to kids around the neighborhood, as long as their parents agreed, but two of them went to Mrs. Freeman next door.  She also got the house and the property, because he didn’t want it any more.  She’s turning it into a bakery.

Aside from the dogs, though, it’s all there, packed away, ready to be shipped across the Atlantic Ocean.  His truck was going, too, even though the cost to have it shipped to Ålesund is ridiculous.  He’s not going with most of his things, however; they’re going straight to Ålesund whereas he’s going to Copenhagen first, and then to Oslo, and finally Ålesund.

He chose to go the long way because he hasn’t been to any of them, and it was a dream as a child - to go to the Baltic capitals, see the sights, and now he has the chance.

He chose a ship because it’s freer and larger than a plane, and that means everything to Will; freedom and choices, something that he hasn’t had for a very long time.

When they finally -  _finally_  - dock in Copenhagen, the air is free and fresh, a little cold but scented with the sea air.  It smells a little like Louisiana, just a little, but overall it just smells somewhat like  _home_.

He collects his luggage and stumbles down the gangplank, still wobbly from the sea, but he makes it, squinting into the sun.

They check his passport and let him go through customs, and just like that, he’s in Denmark.  

It’s a curious thing, to hear a different language where English would normally surround him.  Danish sounds strangely beautiful, and he just takes it in for a moment.

All he hears is his name before there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he turns to see Hannibal - not in Ålesund, but here, for  _him_.

"You - Hannibal, you’re to be in Ålesund!”

Hannibal would not be so blase as to shrug, but Will can see it in his eyes.  ”Clarice is more than capable of taking care of things there.  I didn’t wish to leave you adrift.”

Hannibal tugs him close and presses a kiss to his forehead and takes one of the suitcases.

"I have reservations at a very nice restaurant after we check into the hotel, William.  Shall we go?"

"Yeah, I’m ready.  When are we going to Ålesund?”

Hannibal smiles.  ”Missing Clarice?”

Will blushes and ducks his head, grasping Hannibal’s free hand.  ”Maybe a little, all right?”

Hannibal leans in close, nips the edge of Will’s ear, and watches a flush travel up Will’s face. “I’m glad.”

It’s a curious thing, this happiness; especially with Hannibal   He’ll never be able to reconcile the two people, like Clarice said, but at the same time, he knows there is something to be had here.

Clarice had said on the phone once that they had their own little “murder family” and it made her gasp with laughter until it was contagious and Will was laughing along with her.  He didn’t even know why they were laughing, until they were both in tears and were sobbing together over  _something_ , something they lost and found and nearly lost again.

He crowds Hannibal.  He smells of sea air and clean leather, and some sweet flower.  It smells very much like home should smell.


End file.
